In their arrogance, the self-proclaimed “heroes” of our story might think they’re winning.
Scurrying like vermin from one corner of Azeroth to the next; undoing our plans here, foiling our schemes there.
From the lowest depths of Uldum to the highest peaks of Northrend they’ve raced, getting drunk and dim from their string of victories, revelling over the spoiled ruins of our men and machines.
And frankly, for all I care, they can celebrate to their heart’s content. Let them revel for a while; keep themselves distracted with that false hope, that they’re fast approaching the final blow that will tear our ambitions apart. Keep their eyes and ears on the promise of another fight, another victory against our petty regional excurions.
For little do they know, that all that, has simply been us keeping them busy. Tugging them from pillar to post, following our breadcrumbs - while our true work lies much closer to home.
For as they race ever further away from their heartlands, drifting to the edges of the map in search of our oh so distractingly flamboyant appearances there; they shan’t even notice as we quietly dig our claws in here, right at the centre of the world.
For on a little island, just beyond the gates of Orgrimmar, our whispers in the night have infiltrated this place; like ghosts in the machine, turning the gears, slowly adjusting its operation towards our own, grander design. Built originally to defend the Horde from the Alliance, this enormous weapon lay tragically disregarded; its staff growing lazy and dull from constant talks of ceasefire between the warring factions. And so, like a ripe apple from a tree, their minds and their island fell into our lap. Immediately, our rot began to set in.
So run, heroes. Run as far as you can hunting us to the very end of the world. For with your backs to Azshara, you have failed to notice the most crucial piece of the puzzle. But worry not, we shan’t keep our surprise from you hidden much longer.
This battle cannon was built for a purpose, after all; and we think it’s such a TRAGEDY to leave it to waste…
Somewhere, in Bilgewater Harbour, a little goblin found himself utterly compelled to approach the central control panel built into the barracks beneath the island’s titanic main gun; strangely unquestioned by any of his comrades, who felt equally compelled to allow him passage.
Little dollops of purple goop followed his tracks; tell tale signs, which he hastily tried to conceal by rubbing the same coloured drool from his chin, onto the back of his heavy leather gloves. His eyes hidden behind thick, black goggles, he placed his hands on the console; throwing a quick glance to the corpse of the usual gunnery sergeant, now strewn broken over a tottered chair.
A smile at his mouth, he leant forwards, and uttered just three words into the little microphone protruding before him.
“Prepare to fire”.
